


Tears of the Fire Soul

by Lunarium



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-10 01:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12288099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: Fëanor, finding himself confided in the Halls of Mandos, watches as his sons bear terrible burdens, and seeks to heal himself and others.





	Tears of the Fire Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



“I am not a cruel man, no matter what you may think of me,” Námo spoke calmly as Fëanor paced the barren ground. “You have been slain, and here you shall remain until your deeds are required at the End.” 

Fëanor paused momentarily to shoot him a sharp look. “And when will that day come?” 

“That I do not divulge,” Námo said. “Now, rest! You will only make your spirit weary, and it has already had a long travel to my halls. Rest and be at peace, Fëanor. You’ve had a terrible battle and a terrible death.” 

Fëanor stood, shaking with anger as Námo turned his back and walked away. He wanted to say something to make him turn back around, to continue their argument from before, but there was nothing he could say to rile him. The Vala was— _damn him_ —maddeningly patient. 

He stepped out of the antechamber long after Námo had gone. He had woken here after his death though he was unsure how much time had passed. The rest of the Halls of Mandos, from his vantage point, seemed just as grim and dreary, with very little light or furnishing. The ceiling hung high above his head. But Fëanor knew he was far from the only occupant. How many now resided here thanks to him? 

The hall stretched long and dark, and he wondered if if there were any regions out of bounds to him. Could he find Vairë, perhaps, or Nienna, though he had no real reason for them. 

Then the name rose to his lips as realization suddenly struck him. 

“Father!” 

He ran down the halls, crying out over and over, then stopping, listening, for any reply. But his calls and footsteps echoed, and nothing came in reply. 

“Where have you kept my father, Námo?” Fëanor demanded down the halls, hoping the Vala would at least hear him. “Show me! If I must live until the end of time as this, let me at least see my father again!” 

When Námo did not reply, he made to explore through the endless dark maze of the hall, shouting obstinacies and blasphemies that he hoped would rile the damn Vala. 

When at last he began to feel his own soul begin to weary, as Námo had warned, he detected faint light overhead. Suddenly alert, he made for the source, his heart pounding rapidly and hungrily for the source. 

Soon, color melded with light. Blue, then violets and greens and silvers. 

To his astonishment, Fëanor reared his head back to study the magnificent tapestry that hung from the ceiling, displaying a scene that seemed familiar. 

“Mother?” 

He ran to the end of the hall and pounded his fists against the door. “Mother! Let me inside! Vairë! If you can hear my voice, open the door at once! I demand it!” 

Yet no voice came, nor any footstep. The door remained locked. 

He took a step back, heaving heavy breaths. “Impossible,” he said. “Why? If you wish me to stay here, why keep me alone and shut out from both my father and mother? Is this my punishment?” 

He turned back to the tapestry he had first seen at the mouth of the hall. He had only vaguely recognized it as Tirion just before the Darkening, the festivity cast in beauty before Morgoth’s evil robbed it of Telperion’s light. 

The tapestry next to that showed two lines of elves marching down, one blazed in fire, and one engulfed in ice. A third lay in blotchy pools of red by the sea. 

“Mother, do you see what has become of us?” Fëanor wondered as he studied each tapestry, each more disturbing than the next. He studied the one that told of his death, of his sons holding him as his body combust into flames after his grievous wounds. He could almost feel his blood pooling down his arm again. 

How did his mother feel having to create this? 

There was another piece next to this, and Fëanor glanced at it, half-expecting to see himself in this hall. Instead all the color drained from his face. 

An elf with coppery hair hung, almost naked and bruised, from a precipice, chained by the wrist to the high mountain. 

He placed his hand over the figure’s small face as grief gripped him. “My son…my son!”

* * *

Námo exhaled a long breath, though it did little to steady his shaking hands. His sister Nienna reached over and placed her hand over his. Her eyes shone silvery and wet with tears. It seemed ever since the Darkening she was in this constant state, as tear tracks marked her pale face. Their brother Irmo paced around them. 

Many years had passed since Fëanor entered the halls. 

“You feel the spirit of the elves as they are ripped,” Nienna said. “Has another one been lost to Morgoth?” 

“By now I cannot tell,” Námo said in a low voice. “But I can hear their cries and suffering in the Halls. I hear them in my mind. The Teleri are frightened. They hid away once they heard Fëanor’s voice. They begged to not be seen by him. His own father does not wish to see him, not until he is ready. There is still much for him to come to terms with before he can speak with anyone.” 

“And his mother just wishes to weave alongside Vairë,” Irmo said. “She has no desire to count herself among the Eldar. Goodness, does she feel nothing for the lives she depicts in her work? Her own line? Have you not seen these depictions?” 

“As they do line the walls of my halls, yes, I have in fact seen them,” Námo said bitingly. 

“How have you been faring, brother?” Nienna asked, giving Irmo a look that meant to have patience with Námo at this time. 

“My gardens have wilted,” Irmo said. “Those who come seeking sanctuary in my gardens still leave shaken and haunted by nightmares. It has taken hold of my trees and flowers. I have sought Yavanna but there is little she could do. As the collective dreams of the Elder continue to be plagued by thoughts of Morgoth and his evil, my gardens will continue to suffer.”

“And I have not found relief from this grief ever since Finwë had been slain,” Nienna said. “I come to the spirits to offer mercy and to speak with them, but I am overwhelmed. Tears are meant to heal, but I fear I may grow weary and wither myself before this war is over.” 

“I am sorry,” Námo said softly to his siblings. “It appears we are all tied to the Eldar such that we will suffer along with them.” 

“It will not be in vain,” came a voice as Vairë appeared under the archway. “If you may, I have something to show you.” 

She took them towards her halls and motioned to a wide clearing. Fëanor sat with an elf’s head rested upon his knees. To their surprise his own face was filled with tears, which he collected into a cloth and then wiped the grime from the elf’s weary face. 

“That is Curufin, one of the fallen. Three of his sons have died today in a great battle,” Vairë said. “Fëanor has been watching his sons’ progress throughout Arda carefully. When they died, he waited for them, and took Caranthir first and wept over him until his son grew enough strength to rise to his feet.” 

“He has learned that tears can heal!” Nienna said, astonished. “Would the tears of a fire soul truly heal?” 

Vairë smiled. 

They turned back to watch. Curufin stirred in his father’s arms. 

“Father? Father, forgive me for I have failed…”

“Worry no longer about that,” Fëanor said as he continued washing him. “You are here. That is all that matters. The Silmarils will find their rightful place, in time. But for now, rest.”

Curufin’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he continued to study his father closer. “What, has being here softened you? Morgoth had slain your father and stolen your Silmarils!” 

“No,” Fëanor said. “I would still set ablaze this entire hall if I so wished. I have spoken with my father in recent years. It had taken time but he had beckoned me when he was ready to face me. The same was also true of the people I had slain. It had taken time but soon we had forgiven each other. All wounds can heal. 

“I have seen every step of your journeys. Everything. I have seen the battles you fought, the loved ones you’ve lost, the blood you spilled in name of this family. I could scarcely bear the sight of my own sons tormented because of my own haste, turned into savage killers because of my pain. Leave all that in the world beyond these gates. For now, let us rest and heal. A chance for regain what was taken from us will come. It will be earned.” 

Curufin scrambled up so that he was sitting with his legs pressed against his chest. Fëanor chuckled darkly. 

“You do not believe me?” he said. “I would not have believed myself either when I first walked down these halls. But you will come to understand.” 

Nienna turned to her brothers, and through the new tears was a smile. 

“There is hope yet,” she said. “If the elves have begun to reach out and forgive old enemies, then there is still hope!”


End file.
